For now, I keep walking and play the rest of Reese’s message. “It’s once a week for the rest of the season, and naturally, we think you’d be great for it. Call me for the details.”

  The show sounds cool, but the timing is odd. I dial Reese right away, and after we say our hellos, I fire away: “Isn’t it a little late to be lining someone up for this show? The season has already started.”

  “They were going to have Trevor Washington do it, but he couldn’t do it this past week,” she says, then hesitates, like there might be more, before she adds cheerily, “And now they want you.”

  There’s something unsaid in her pause. I almost don’t want to go there, but the question is welling up inside me. “Did Cafferty turn them down first? Am I the backup to the backup or something?”

  Like hell am I going to be Beck’s sloppy seconds.

  She jumps on my question as if it’s a grenade. “No!”

  “Then what’s the story?” I like Reese. She’s a straight shooter. But I want her to be blunt with me.

  “Look,” Reese begins like she’s leaning in to confide in me, “Nadia worked the deal with the station herself.” A request from the team owner doesn’t happen every day. Nadia Harlowe doesn’t ask much of me directly other than to win, something I didn’t do for her last year. “Nadia wants more press. She thinks putting you out there more will help with the team’s overall marketing, and that’s one of her big goals—more marketing to drive attendance. And you’re great at interviews and public speaking in general. You’re perfect for this. Also, from what I hear, they didn’t ask Beck.”

  I rein in a laugh of schadenfreude. I shouldn’t gloat—even in my head—over being picked first for the show. I shouldn’t derive any glee from being better with the media. Beck’s with the better team, so life has a way of evening things out.

  “I’ll do it, and thanks for asking me. Please let Nadia know I will not disappoint her,” I say sincerely as I reach the small-batch ice cream shop, then turn onto Fillmore.

  I hang up, passing the familiar mix of high-end and hipster boutiques on this hilly street as I try to figure out why I don’t want to take Zena’s offer, besides the obvious—do I really want to be the face of a dating app?

  As I debate that choice, I head into the gym, pop music blasting and weights clanging. The gym is huge, with row after row of machines and a faintly chlorinated scent drifting in from the adjacent pool. Smells like hard work and discipline: two of my favorite things.

  Once I reach the weight bench, I pick some heavy dumbbells, and while I do bicep curls, I replay the handful of dates I had in the off-season. They all fizzled. Maybe that’s the real problem I’ve had with apps. I can’t spark with someone online. I’m a physical kind of guy. I work with my body. I like to use my body on and off the field.

  Like with Beck.

  The memory of that night flashes white-hot. Annoyingly so. His fiery mouth. His questing hands. His barrage of eager questions.

  The guy was a fun puzzle, and he was also hot as hell.

  But lots of guys are hot. And the whole encounter ended with more questions than answers when he didn’t show up for our second date.

  Maybe I dodged a bullet, though, because he’s in the closet as far as I can tell.

  When it comes to guys I date or hook up with more than once—I’m only into dudes who are out.

  Because I’m out.

  There’s no halfway as a pro athlete. Our job is in the public eye. If Beck were out, I’d know. Everyone would know. No shade from me on his choices. People decide on their own time when to walk out of the closet, and I’d never pressure someone.

  But if that’s what he wanted to explain to me, he could have said that in his text. He didn’t need to wait to tell me in person. So, his I’ll explain later felt like the coward’s path to ditching me.

  Just man up and say I didn’t want a second date.

  Plain and simple.

  I won’t let a guy walk all over me. Not after the way Wyatt, my ex, tried to manipulate me. We had a good thing going for a while until he gave me an ultimatum about my job.

  That didn’t fly.

  Football is my first love, and it deserves all my attention.

  I’ll turn Zena down. I’ve got a busy season ahead. My dad to look out for. My volunteer work at the Alliance. And this new podcast.

  There’s no time for dating. No time for sex. And no time to worry about Beck.

  Eventually, I’ll run into him around town, and when I do, I’ll just smile and wave.

  With that decided, I finish my weights routine and head for the cardio equipment, ready to claim a treadmill.

  Then the door swings open to the gym, and Beck walks in.

  What. The. Fuck? It’s like I just summoned him.

  Rationally, it makes sense that our paths would cross in a gym, but holy shit. I was not prepared. For any of my reactions. Both the desire and the annoyance as I take in the sight of his chiseled jaw, his broody eyes, his broad frame.

  I don’t wave. I don’t smile.

  I do the opposite.

  I clench my jaw and breathe out hard. My entire body is strung tight.

  This is a big problem. With this powder-keg of irritation inside me, I can’t smile and wave at Beck.

  If I were in the pocket and saw a play would fail, I’d call a new one.

  Because . . .

  What if there’s another reason Beck stood me up? What if he’s trying to figure out how to come out? I think of Whitney and Jonah, learning who they are and what they want. I think of my younger self and the angst I went through before I came out to my teammates.

  I’ve got nine years of being out in public under my belt. Beck doesn’t have any, as far as I know. What if that was what he wanted to talk about when he texted me to explain?

  Do the right thing.

  I make a line of scrimmage decision as I cut across the treadmills to catch up with him.

  4

  My To-Do List Just Got Shorter

  Beck

  * * *

  I arrive at the gym and swipe my card. The place is packed, teeming with fitness warriors attacking StairMasters and spinning fast on bikes. Making my way past the rows of cardio equipment, I hunt for Carter like I’d search for him on the field. Fair skin, trim beard, hands like oven mitts.

  There he is, at the back of the gym, working out with some guys who look familiar. I’ve just started toward them when a voice I last heard in my fantasies calls out: “Cafferty.”

  I shiver.

  I fucking shiver.

  I turn around to face him. I’m battered by the unfairness of my reaction to Jason McKay. It’s instant and unmistakable like I’ve been zapped with electricity.

  Crack. Pop. Sizzle.

  He’s as handsome as ever, those blue eyes the color of a clear sky. They laser in on me, and in a heartbeat . . . my chest heats up.

  Don’t think about that night.

  And maybe while you’re at it, don’t think about how good he looks, all that determination in his gaze, the sheen of sweat at the neck of his shirt, the curve of his lips.

  And that dimple. That stupid, fucking, adorable dimple. I could stare dopily at him for my whole workout.

  But I won’t.

  I snap back to this moment, not on memories and not on foolish wishes. “Hey, McKay,” I say, but that sounded weird. The rhythm of those words. “It rhymes. Hey, McKay.”

  Talk much?

  That’s not what I wanted to say either. Why is this so hard with him? Oh, right. Attraction this strong trips me up. Thanks, lust.

  “That it does,” Jason says, then holds out a hand. “Congrats on the trade, man. Exciting stuff.”

  I take his hand and pump, doing my damnedest to erase other images of his hands. On my chest, my face, my cock.

  My cheeks burn. “So, this is your gym?”

  He glances around and nods. “Yup. My turf,” he says, then flashes a grin. “Of all the gin joints in San Francisco.”

  I recover quickly. “They serve liquor here? Who knew it was a full-service gym.”

  “Oh yeah, this place has everything. Full bar, driving range, and facials,” he says with a wink. “What more could you want?”

  To talk like this.

  Except banter with Jason isn’t on my to-do list. And while now probably isn’t the time for sorries, it might be my only chance.

  But Jason speaks first. “So, listen—”

  “Do you have a second to talk?” I ask because I’m going first.

  He startles but recovers quickly. “Yeah, sure.”

  One speedy look around says I spoke too soon. Jason’s teammates are here. So are mine. Fans probably too. We’re standing by the water fountain, near a row of treadmills, ten feet from the weights. This was a mistake. This is not where I can explain what happened that night a year ago.

  But I called this meeting. “There must be a quiet spot somewhere,” I say softly.

  Jason coolly nods toward the hallway that must lead to the lockers. He’s so smooth with everything. I bet this sort of thing is routine to him. He’s Mister Easygoing, moving through life, chatting casually with guys he once hooked up with like it’s no big deal.

  But whatever his story is, I need to say my piece, for myself.

  I follow him. There are small exercise rooms on each side of the hall for personal training sessions, with mats and balance balls. Jason gestures to an empty one and opens the door. At least it’s nice and quiet in here, even if it does feel like a fishbowl, with anyone passing by able to look in.

  I speak before I lose the nerve. “I wanted to explain what went down after the game last year,” I say.

  Jason shakes his head, offering me a warm smile that spreads to those blue eyes. “Like I said, we’re all good. There’s no need.”

  But there is a need. I need to tell him. “I want to clear the air. About the . . .” I don’t want to presume he’s even thought twice about what happened. “The situation. My situation,” I say to jog his memory.

  Jason smiles again. Shakes his head again. “Seriously. We’re all good.”

  He sounds so genuine, so real. Like he did that night when he gave me media tips. When we laughed and talked and teased.

  I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, buying some time.

  Jason, though, is so good at off-the-cuff. “Listen, I don’t know you well, and that’s cool. But if you need someone to talk to, or someone to turn to for advice about being an athlete and being bi, I’m happy to put you in touch with some good people.”

  What?

  My head spins.

  “What do you mean, exactly?” I ask carefully. Is he offering to connect me with other queer folks? Why the hell does he think I need that?

  “You gotta do you, Cafferty. Whatever works for you, but if you need support or advice or anything, at any point in your journey, just know that I’m out, Nate is out, and a bunch of baseball players on both the Cougars and the Dragons are. And there’s a great LGBTQ Alliance in town. We’re all here if you need anything.”

  Whoa. My brain is ping-ponging, trying to follow this unexpected conversation.

  My journey?

  He doesn’t know my journey. He doesn’t know who I am. I’m not in the closet. My football buddies from Los Angeles, like Drew and Ángel, know I’m bi. My agent knows. Most of my former teammates knew. And so did my last girlfriend, Rachel.

  I’m just not on fucking social media. That’s all.

  “I appreciate that, but I want to . . .” Clear the air dies on my tongue as Jason points to the clock on the wall.

  “I need to hit the treadmill, and then I have a date at my place with a very special guy. See you later. And best of luck this season.” Then he gives me that crooked smile that melts my heart and balls. “And I can’t wait to destroy you on the field.”

  On that throwdown, he leaves, strutting down the hallway like that was easy for him. Reeling off advice. Grinning casually. Taking off to work out and get ready for his date.

  What a lucky guy to have a date with Jason McKay.

  I didn’t get to say my piece, but the window has closed.

  I leave and find Carter on a treadmill. When my teammate spots me walking toward him, he holds out his hands in a what gives? then tugs out his earbuds. “Where did you disappear to with McKay?”

  My face burns again. My stomach flips.

  Not only did I gain zero resolution, but now I’m also hot and bothered. In just a few minutes, he turned me on and shut me down.

  That man has too much of an effect on me. I’ve got to get it together. I put on my poker face as I claim the machine next to Carter, slapping my towel on the bar. “We were just trading trash talk. You know how it goes.”

  He offers a fist for knocking. “Excellent. You’re already trying to psych out the city’s other QB. You’re gonna fit in here just fine, Caff.”

  That’s what I’m here to do. To slide into this well-oiled machine of a team and take them to the postseason once more.

  As I run, I cross apologize to Jason off my to-do list. I tried. He said we’re good. That’s all that matters.

  But as I run, I feel weirdly unfulfilled.

  Like I didn’t close the loop.

  And I hate incomplete passes.

  5

  Such a Nice Guy

  Jason

  * * *

  That was painful but necessary.

  If Beck thought I was icing him out because he’s closeted, I could not sleep well at night. I might not date guys in the closet, but I’m not a dick about how people run their lives. Everyone has their comfort level with their public image and private business. Mine is mine. Beck’s is his.

  With that done, I find a treadmill at the end of the row and crank up the speed and incline immediately.

  I run with blinders on, though I’m aware of Beck two machines away. I keep my eyes ahead, but I know his pace is hard and fast. My senses tune into the rhythm of his running. I can pick out the slap of his sneakers on the belt even in the busy gym.

  There’s nothing awkward about this. I don’t need to find a new gym. Beck’s barely a former hookup. He’s just another baller in the same town.

  That. Is. All.

  I set a personal record on the treadmill—forty-five minutes at an incline of, like, three thousand.

  With my heart racing, I hop off the machine, grab a towel from the front desk, and head to the locker room, wiping my brow. At the row of sinks, I wash my hands as someone comes around the corner. I look up and lock eyes with Beck in the mirror. For a second, I see that hungry look he had at my house a year ago, sneaking glances at me as we watched episode after episode of Unfinished Business on my big screen. His eyes flicker with heat, but the fire dies so fast that maybe I imagined it.

  Was there no other gym he could have joined?

  “Good workout?” he asks as he turns on the other sink and then splashes water on his face.

  “The best,” I say because I don’t know what to talk about other than this . . . bullshit.

  We should be able to talk without getting riled up. Clearly, I’ll be seeing him around.

  I turn off the water. A moment later, he does the same, then—“Carter told me about this gym,” he blurts.

  Dude seems to have two speeds with his mouth—Mach and molasses.

  It takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. He’s worried I think he signed up for me.

  Yeah, Beck, it’s fucking clear where you stand on me.

  “Carter’s a good guy,” I say. Then, since someone needs to set the pace, I shrug as I dry my hands on the towel draped over my shoulder. “I like him well enough . . . for a Renegade.”

  That teases a smile from Beck’s lips as he pats his face with his towel. “It’s weird, hearing Renegades and knowing I’m one of them now.”

  “I imagine so,” I say. I don’t know how I’d feel if the Hawks traded me. I hope like hell they don’t.

  “But then, I wasn’t a Mercenary for long.”

  “This is, what, your second year?” I ask as if I don’t know the stats of every gridiron signal-caller in the league.

  Beck pauses significantly, and I feel like he’s waiting for me to catch up or catch on. “I was a rookie a year ago,” he adds.

  Well, no shit.

  But then I focus on what he seems to be trying to tell me without words. He was a rookie when we hooked up that night. Or maybe I’m reading into that because of my bruised ego. Maybe he’s just struggling to adjust to a lot of changes. The least I can do is be a good guy when he’s looking lost.

  “And how was your first year?” I ask.

  Beck’s eyes stay locked on mine, and I wish those soulful browns didn’t flip my chest. But damn, his eyes just do it for me.

  “Good. But hard. That’s the job, though, right?” He sounds like a protégé asking a mentor. Not sure I want to be his quarterback buddy, but maybe that’s all he ever needed from me.

  “As long as you win, the fans will love you here,” I say with a smile.

  He laughs softly. “Football truths one-oh-one,” he says, and there’s that light side of him that I saw at my house.

  “Winning covers all manner of sins,” I add, and I should go. But I don’t make a move to leave quite yet. He doesn’t either.

  “It’s a lot,” he says, relieved.

  Yup. He’s feeling the pressure of the job. I’m tempted to pat his shoulder, give a reassuring squeeze, or something. But touching him is a bad idea. I’m still too attracted to him, and that frustrates the fuck out of me.

  “It sure is,” I say.

  Beck swallows and meets my gaze once more. The locker room is quiet. No one is near us. “Jason,” he says like he said my name that night at my house. It comes out so personal, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll ask to kiss me again. I’d probably say yes, even though it’d be a huge mistake.

  “Do you want me to find a new gym?” he asks.

  Crossing my arms, I stare at him. “Dude. No. We’re all good. Do you really think I’m that kind of a dick?”